Texas Steakhouse - Rocky Mount, North Carolina

This weekend I went down to Rocky Mount, North Carolina for my cousin's wedding. She had been dating the fella for 8 years; ridiculous, I know, I really believe the guy should have held off for an even 10. The Jones side of the family is pretty big, 7 children and probably like 25 grandchildren. I actually had to ask one of my uncles how many kids he had now, the guy is like a rabbit. Nearly everyone came down for the wedding, cousins, uncles, parole officers, everybody. We had a good ole time, we stayed at the luxurious Holiday Inn right off of North Winstead Avenue and US-64, and had nearly all of the 4th floor for ourselves. Anyway, they have a pool, which was lovely, especially for Saturday's 90 degree, 98 percent humidity, and overcast weather. My cousins Mitch and Mike, ages five and seven respectively, had a good time swimming for a little bit, until a breeze picked up and they started to get chilly. Mitch got out of the pool and came and told us that he wanted to go to the bar, which I thought was a lovely idea. I volunteered to take him into Texas Steakhouse so my aunt and uncle could have a little time off. So we get to the bar, I sit down and order a tall Coors Light, and get Mitch a Roy Rogers. After about 2 beers and 20 minutes Mitch tells me he has to go to the bathroom, again another genius idea from a 5 year old. I figure that by the time I finish my 3rd drink I'll need to drain the snake too, so I tell him to give me 2 minutes. Mitch then starts shaking around on the chair saying he has to go, he has to go, and I kept telling him 2 minutes. Poor kid, he can't hold it anymore and lets it go on the bar stool. I'm such a jerk. Mitch starts crying, I am feeling awful. All I want to do is to get him to stop crying. So I whip it out and start peeing on my bar stool so he doesn't feel so bad. The bartender comes over and starts screaming at me, which makes Mitch cry harder. She is yelling and having a fit, saying its disgusting and unsanitary, and kicks me out of the bar. She doesn't even let me pay. At this point I have Mitch in one arm, his pee soaked shorts smushed up against my favorite Guns 'n' Roses t-shirt, my wallet in the other trying to hand her a $20 bill for all the trouble, 3 beers, and the Roy Rogers, and the manager is pushing me out the front door. I am feeling awful, and as he closes the front door on me I yell in and say "just charge it to my room, I'm in 111!" Ooopps.